White Stains on Green Grass
by Binet-Simon Scale
Summary: "Uhhh," Baljeet drawled, eyes spinning in a roll, "no."  Buford/Baljeet, rating may change to M.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaim: I do not in any way own Phineas and Ferb and other associated characters.

Whoever said money doesn't matter was obviously a rich son of a bitch. That was the thought-of-the-day brought to you by Buford, the poor son of a bitch in need of money. Well, technically in need of a motorcycle, specifically a classic Road King from Harley-Davidson, but he needed the money to get the bike and to get money he needed a job. Which is what brought Buford to stand outside the Patel residence something he hadn't done since the incident with a flyer crumbled in his fist the other poised to knock.

Why was he doing this? There were plenty of better paying easier jobs listed on the community bulletin board yet he ripped this ad of the board before even reading it, recognizing the neat hand writing. It was a pointless question to ask he knew why he is taking this job, for Baljeet, to see his ex-nerd after five years, to see how different the Indian was from the scrawny ten year old he used to be. Buford had certainly changed over the years following the incident not really physically he was still rather chubby and menacing just now he was taller with acne, the real change had happened mentally he had matured and calmed not much but to those who knew him before the difference was notable.

Buford's fist pounded on the brown door two feet above an old bend in the wood left from when his ten year old self would beat at it with vigor. The memory of a young Baljeet opening the door and looking at him with a sort of annoyed fondness caused a rueful smile. He knew now there would be nothing but blind hatred in the Indian's eyes now, not that he could blame him.

The brass door knob jiggled and Buford held his breath like a man does when he sees his wife in her wedding dress and didn't release it until the door swung open in a very un-Baljeet manner. Standing in the boxed frame of the doorway was an Indian man dressed in loose grey sweatpants, a green flannel shirt left unbuttoned displaying a decently toned set of abs, and sock covered feet incased in sandals. His hair was brushed back but it had a definite kink to it, stubble was set across his jaw line, and two thickly arched eyebrows framed his brown eyes. Surely this couldn't be Baljeet, the nameless man in the doorway was too broad and short, hair to straight, nose to large, lips to thick, chin to squared, and his eyes – Buford stared hard at those eyes seeing the deep brown incasing the pupils and knew this wasn't his ex-nerd this man's irises are too bright! It was next to impossible to distinguish Baljeet's eye color from his pupils.

"You ain't Baljeet!" he expressed, tossing his hands up in some mix of anger and annoyance.

"Can't say I am." The man grinned scratching his chest absentmindedly, "I'm his brother, Kumar, just visiting from college for a while."

"I didn't ask for your life story – I asked for Baljeet!"

"Technically you didn't ask for him you just stated I wasn't him."

Buford didn't like this guy he was smart, like Baljeet, he saw it in Kumar's eyes that certain brightness that comes along with intelligence but this guy didn't use it the way Baljeet did he used it to be a smart ass and make other's feel like a dumb ass.

After using his mental countdown to cool off Buford managed a tone that wasn't too homicidal, "I need to see Baljeet…please."

"I'll get him," Kumar looked about ready to turn and walk up the stairs to where Buford knew Baljeet's room was but he stopped and inclined his head as far as it would go in the general direction of the stairs and bellowed, "BALJEET!"

"I coulda done that!"

"Well then why didn't you?"

"Coming,"

Buford bit back his sarcastic reply at the sound of Baljeet's muffled voice, to muffled to tell how it had changed. He didn't even hear Baljeet come down the stairs he was simply not there and then suddenly Kumar stepped aside hand gesturing to the Indian he came to see perched on the last step a small smile cast at his brother before those dark eyes looked to the door and saw him.

Buford saw hatred but it wasn't as blind as he anticipated it was a sad sort of hatred the kind where you don't really want to hate but you've been given no other option but to hate. Buford could admit to not giving Baljeet a lot of options.

"Leave," without the distance and walls Buford heard Baljeet's voice for the first time in five years.

It was so different yet still so similar he could hear where the voice came from, where it had its humble beginnings, recognize the soft flow but notice the loss of its squeaky, high-pitched quality. Baljeet's voice hadn't dropped like Buford's had it had become more soothing and slow more practiced and even.

Baljeet took the final step down and Buford scanned the further revealed body. Baljeet looked nothing like his older brother or even showed a hint of one day looking as such. He was no longer scrawny he was coltish with long limbs he looked like he would outgrow his brother and he was only a few scant inches shorter then Buford, his curls weren't so persistent and looked far more relaxed and manageable, his nose and ears that had once looked oversized on his face now appeared slender to fit in with the rest of his delicate features. Baljeet's eyes were still rounded and wide, still so black Buford couldn't tell where pupil ends and iris begins with that spark of intelligence adding light to the otherwise dark depths.

"I said leave."

"I'm answering your ad," Buford explained, holding up a crinkled mass of something resembling Baljeet's post.

"Uhhh," Baljeet drawled, eyes spinning in a roll, "no."

"What? Why?" he sputtered hands flailing, "I'm perfect for the job it's mindless and repetitive!"

"The position has been filled."

"No it hasn't!" Buford slipped, "I took all the flyers!"

Baljeet snorted, "I highly doubt that. I hung hundreds of them all over the tri-state area."

Buford had learned at a very young age that lying to Baljeet was impossible the kid was just too damn smart and Buford was well Buford.

"Yeah and I spent all of yesterday hunting all two hundred forty-seven down," the light in Baljeet's eyes shimmered but Buford stopped the undoubtedly smart retort cold, "and I know there were only that many because you numbered your pages."

Baljeet huffed at being out witted and rambled to cover his embarrassment, "Two hundred forty-seven was the optimal number to post and at a distance of ten kilometer it covered the tri-state area in an efficient manner."

Long fingers curled around the door knob ready to close away the image of Buford, "I will find and tear down every flyer you post no matter what and if that fails I will bully whoever you give the job to into quitting."

Baljeet's exasperated sigh was the beginning of a beautiful thing Buford was sure of it.

_AN/ _I'm not even sure how this came about. It started off as an Adam/Tommy prompt but then it got totally scrapped into a Kevin/Ben thing and I wrote out the first like four chapters following a similar plot but then my Word program accidently autocorrected (I rebooted my system and forgot to disengage it) Benjamin into Baljeet and I could not stop myself. I scrapped all those chapters and kept the basic plot because it is impossible for me to ever think of a plot for Buford/Baljeet and I was not about to pass up the opportunity.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaim: I do not in any way own Phineas and Ferb and other associated characters.

Buford knew it was only a matter of time before his ex-nerd would cave in. The Patel lawn usual was immaculately structured every flower was color coordinated, shrubs squared to a tee, the lawn was edged and never ever was the grass past a pert inch in height. As of late though the flowers were dropping with the slightest hint of brown curling on their colors, the shrubs were spiraling upward blocking out random parts of the first floor windows, the lawn was now shaggy with overgrowth and sporting weeds.

He'd seen a fight between Kumar and Baljeet the other day – not that he was spying or anything that would be unethical – about the care of the lawn. Apparently the Indians parents were missing in action and it was up to Kumar, being the older and stronger brother, to do the upkeep of the yard which he has obviously failed at doing. Kumar, it appeared, was extremely lazy not that Buford cared the longer the elder brother neglected the yard work the closer Baljeet came to caving in and giving him the job. The job that would bring him closer to Baljeet and get him his bike it was a win-win situation.

Now if only Baljeet would see that. The nerd wasn't really known for his stubbornness in his younger years more-so for his dedication but Buford was now realizing that that dedication had now been dedicated to being stubborn towards Buford. It had been a month – a fricken' month – and his ex-nerd had slammed – in the gentlest way one could – the door in Buford's face numerous times. Obviously there was still some issues they needed to hash out because apparently appearing out of the blue after five years of separation due to an epic fall out offering to take a shitty job wasn't a good enough apology.

But Buford knew not to get his boxers in a bunch because Baljeet was going to give up sooner rather than later the nerd's OCD wouldn't let this messiness go on much longer. Buford had already seen the signs of his ex-nerd's resolve crumbling: the heated fight with Kumar, the constant staring at the lawn, the way he flew out the front door without looking at the yard, and the way he slammed the door a little bit later each time.

Baljeet was starting to consider letting Buford have the job.

"I do not know how many times I must tell you 'no' before you comprehend that I mean it – the position has been filled!"

"By someone shitty at their job!"

"Leave now," Baljeet was shaking, right hand clenched around the knob ready to slam non to gently this time, eyes narrowed, and chest heaving with lost patience.

"Uhh," Buford drawled clearly mocking Baljeet from that day three months ago, "no."

Baljeet made this sound – something similar to the way drama queens sound when they storm off – and instead of the expected door in his face Buford suddenly had Baljeet shoving past him strutting off to the backyard in a hissy. Buford had to jog to catch up with that long stride but he made sure to lag enough behind to get a decent view of the Indian's skinny jean clad ass.

When he was less distracted by Baljeet's assets and able to focus on exactly what he was doing rather then what his momma gave him, he found himself confused, "What do you think you're doing?"

An angry glare was shot back at him made more intense by the precise movements Baljeet's hands made on the two combination locks on the shed door, that bottomless stare never stopped even after Baljeet disappeared into the blackness of the interior. The summer sun caught the sheen of metal casting a glare at Buford's eyes but he was able to hear the groan of wheels moving accompanied by the accented grunts. When his eyes finally adjusted he saw Baljeet hefting an old push-mower to the far right side of the fenced in yard. And he meant old, while in great condition the contraption his ex-nerd carried didn't even run on any sort of fuel it was a classic reel mower that needed old fashion elbow-grease to power.

Reaching the corner Baljeet aligned the mower with the fence and jerked forward with all his strength the slight muscling in his arm became defined as he literally had to throw himself at the mower to buildup enough momentum to propel it forward. It was pathetic in Buford's eyes because he knew he could push that thing with one hand easily and cut the grass at a much faster and higher quality. The jerky rate Baljeet was going at left the grass uneven so it needed to be gone over once if not twice more and when Baljeet arrived at the end of the fence he looked ready to die of heatstroke dressed in his skinnies and long sleeves.

"Let me do that, okay," he closed the feet between them as he spoke.

Baljeet's had sprung up so fast his curls were left bouncing, "I do not need nor do I want your assistance," his black orbs were filled with white hot anger and instinctively Buford knew that things were going to be hashed out now, "I have been accomplishing tasks without you – you bigot Neanderthal! We have not communicated in any way for five years and in not one of those years did I ever need you for anything and I certainly do not need you now you selfish, destructive pig!"

Buford was well aware of how he failed to comprehend basically everything but there was something about Baljeet, some wave link they both must be stuck on, that made him the easiest thing to understand for the bully.

"But you wanted me?"

He'd hit a nerve. Baljeet flinched, his voice a whisper when he'd found it, "There was not a second since that awful day transpired that I did not want you."

After a short silence that Buford could find no words to fill Baljeet flipped the mower around and began his trek back over the same piece of lawn he just finished. Buford exhaled lowly, the grass looked just as choppy the second time over. Taking the initiative he came up quickly behind Baljeet placing his beefy hands over the dark ones, already blistering from the worn rubber. Baljeet choked and Buford felt the fine trembles coming off the smaller teen from where his protruding gut rested near the curve of Baljeet' s sweaty back.

Those bottomless eyes twisted to stare and Buford saw the buildup of tears balancing at the ends of thick eyelashes – tears he had caused, willingly. He was undergoing a cosmic experience, stars had aligned somewhere in the invisibility of the space overhead, the bow neck of Baljeet's black shirt tantalizing him with a lighter, raised line of the scar, the one he'd cause five years ago. Buford yearned to slide his hand along the path of the hand under his, past the elbow, to the dip of the shoulder blade just to ghost his finger over the damaged skin, but he didn't. He was far too clumsy, he'd mess up and he's already done so much of that.

The space the bully had rifted between them had become just that – _space_. Stars, planets, asteroids and suns were suspended around them, blocking them from each other, all Buford could think to do was to press closer until he ensnared Baljeet into his gravitational pull to ensure the Indian boy could no longer escape. He wanted his ex-nerd to orbit around him again like he was needed like he was the Sun and Baljeet was the Earth and without Buford Baljeet would crumple and cease to be.

Maybe Buford burnt out because one moment found Baljeet's back pressed against his gut, dark eyes wet with pain and then the next found him tumbling forward his dead weight rocketing the mower a few feet before it teetered to the ground forgotten in favor of Buford hoisting the lightweight of Baljeet and jetting to the backdoor so fast he felt like the Flash.

The backdoor lead into the eastern styled kitchen – middle-eastern to be exact – where Buford discovered Kumar seated at the breakfast bar popping cherries into his mouth or attempting to he was missing a lot and an Asian man opposite to him was tracing the wood grain with the edge of his fingernail mumbling something into his forearm.

Buford wanted to say something important, something that would make sense, but the only person that ever understood him was unconscious, hanging limply off his broad shoulder, "Baljeet," was all he could manage and his voice was too loud and simultaneously too soft.

The Asian's head shot up and the white of his eyes were bloodshot, pupils blankly staring at Buford, he nudged Kumar's elbow as the older man shoved a cherry at his nose, giggling. The gentle touch spurned Kumar to follow the path of his company's blank stare his glassy eyes roamed over Buford but the dopy smile on his cherry stained face signaled that he hadn't really seen what he was looking at.

"Kumar," the tanned hand wrapped around the darker man's elbow, "Baljeet."

It was like releasing a flood gate like Kumar just now noticed his little brother slung over the bully's shoulder, noticed how pale his skin is and how shallow his breath is. His brown eyes sobered, narrowed, and assessed the situation all before he'd even lifted himself up to carefully pluck Baljeet from Buford and then hand him over to the Asian who had obediently followed. At the closer distance Buford could smell the weed imbedded in their clothing.

"You're fucking baked!" The loud noise seemed to disorient the Asian man and he walked around the table a few times before remembering the bundle in his arms and headed out to the living room. Kumar remained rummaging through the cabinet. He pulled out a bowl and filled it with cool water placing a washcloth in the liquid and grabbing the Gatorade previously taken from the fridge before proceeding to the other room.

Buford, lost and unsure, hesitantly followed the path Kumar had taken seconds ago, he entered in time to catch Kumar finish talking, "…heat exhaustion, Harold, nothing serious."

Baljeet was sprawled upon the suede couch and Harold had already removed the overdressed teen's black sneakers and socks and was working on pulling the black thermal shirt over his sweaty curls. Buford couldn't see the scar from his vantage point only the smooth, damp skin of his lower abdomen was reveled – all of it unmarked.

"Go up to his room and get him something lightweight to wear," Kumar instructed, not turning his gaze away from his fretting friend.

Buford, happy for the distraction, felt like Flash the second time in less than an hour as he zoomed up the stairs. In was a nostalgically moment ever other step brought him back to younger memories so vivid he actually believed that no bad blood ran between Baljeet and him. That this was just another lazy summer day about to be spent tossing wads of paper at the Indian boys head, annoying him enough to leave the work and come out of his room. At the top of the steps Buford paused his beefy hand gave a slight tug to the railing and the wood wobbled, weak from years of Buford charging up the steps using the very same railing to ricochet his large frame to the direction of his nerd's room. With another few tugs he ventured onward down the stark hallway beyond the red door at the end of the hall. The brass door knob still retained the shape of his ten year old hand and he grinned as he briefly settled his digits into familiar grooves.

Buford expected Baljeet's room to remain relatively unchanged much like his own. He was expecting a generic blue room with brown molding, beige carpet, bed in the center covered in sheets of greens, blues, and browns, walls lined with books only found in the resource section of a library, and a little corner desk with a swivel chair. What he got was nothing short of breathtaking.

The once bland, overused, and typical space had been totally pimped. The bed was still located in the center of the room – Buford used that familiarity to anchor him – circular in shape with sheer sheets of color hanging from the ceiling canopying the bed in a veil of golds, oranges, and reds to match the new silk bedspread and pillows, the floor was now a deep maroon wood, walls repainted in a medley of the oranges and reds used to accent the room, molding also repainted to a shimmering gold, floating maroon shelves were scattered around on walls in a whimsical yet controlled format holding up statues of different relics, an elephant with only one tusk, men with multiple arms, and a fat smiling man to describe a few. Over by the window, no longer concealed be plastic blinds and flimsy curtains replaced by thickly wooded shades left half open and a display of bamboos casting distorted shadows, on a low shelf sat an odd vase held up by metal wires spiraling up from a wood base. In the vase a single stick that to Buford looked like a sparkler that instead of shooting off embers burned at a slow pace releasing a heavy smoke that smelled like sandal wood.

It reminded Buford of Baljeet who was similarly burning slowly while he was up being a creeper in his room. Fuck, fuckity, fuck, shit. Racing to the closet, old doors replaced with sliding paper rice doors which Buford briefly considered out of place in the Indian styled room, he slid the panel back to reveal – no clothes, no dressers, no cupboards, nothing but a rolled up matt, a threadbare blanket and a few basket storage units to small to hold any clothing. Desperate eyes scanned all around the unfamiliar room with the realization that this was not his old nerd this was someone new, something reborn from the ashes after Baljeet had been burned by him. Buford had only stayed long enough after the incident to watch Baljeet burn in the fire he hadn't stayed to see who had reemerged.

Buford didn't know where Baljeet kept his clothes, he didn't know anything about Baljeet anymore.

"I…I don't know where his clothes are."

Buford began the phrase as a soft chant with time growing loud enough for Harold to come bustling into Baljeet's room. He wasted no time in going straight for the bed, kneeling, he fumbled around for groves in the wooden base, when found he easily yanked open drawers to pull out some baggy shorts, and a tank top. Leave it to Baljeet to give everything a double purpose.

_AN/ _Not sure if my best work is done at one in the morning or not. I'm kind of eh about this chapter but after like four weeks of editing with no change I felt better an eh chapter then a bleh chapter. Damn I really need a beta – so much shit to write *facedesk.


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